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* * *

Kyrie knocked at the door to Conan's room, which was in the bottom floor, just off the entrance. There was a sound of shuffling, from inside, and then Conan's voice, "Yes?"

"It's Kyrie," she whispered. She'd left Tom taking care of her tables, with the excuse that she had to go take a shower to wake up, since she hadn't slept in . . . much too long.

Conan opened the door, and looked at her, somewhat surprised. "Kyrie?"

"I need to talk to you. May I come in?"

"Yeah, sure." He threw the door open into a room that was about a quarter the size of theirs—just a little bigger than the destroyed bathroom at home. It had a daybed against one wall, a small dresser and a desk opposite. At the end of it the door opened into a tiny bathroom, where she could just see the glass door of a stand-up shower, with what looked like a pair of underwear drying draped over it.

Without meaning to, she looked down. Conan was wearing pants—or rather shorts and a baggy white T-shirt. "Is anything wrong?" he asked her.

"Yes and no," she said. She closed the door, then leaned against the desk while he slumped on his bed, and looked at her. And she explained. She explained everything. What had happened, what the plan was.

 

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Framed